Of Piggy Banks and Filet Mignon
by hahahero
Summary: He was forgetting things, but Bel could not for the life of him figure out just what was wrong. BelMammon


**characters/pairings:** Bel/Mammon.  
**warnings:** I think Bel's a bit OOC here. OOPS ;A;  
**disclaimer: **I don't own KHR, obviously, else there would be moar Varia.  
**word count:** 778  
**summary**: He was forgetting things, but Bel could not for the life of him figure out just _what_ was wrong.  
**notes:**I don't like posting things on FF, actually. Its wide pages make my already short fics seem even _shorter_, dang it. Also, leave a review? It'll make me a happy person, even if it's just a little comment.

**Of Piggy Banks and Filet Mignon**

Everything Bel did, he did meticulously.

From his knives to his teeth to his shirts, he always made sure everything was in order. He polished each little silver weapon with frightening care and left no telltale red streaks to be seen, brushed up and down and left and right and all around for three full minutes straight, and sent his striped darlings down to the launder's, every Wednesday and Saturday, _on the dot._

He even took care to make sure that his outfit _matched_ each and every morning, because even if his shirts and boots were going to be stained with the same, red blood by night, he was still _not_ going to step an inch out of his room looking like he'd had a crash course through Lussuria's closet.

That's how Bel realized that something was terribly wrong when the washerwoman called him one Saturday afternoon to ask him why he hadn't brought his clothes in yet. Her strange words stuck to his ears; he started, blinked, and hung up. He looked up from the piggy bank on his lap and glanced towards the pile of clothes at the corner of his bed, _stared_ long and hard, but he couldn't figure anything out.

How in the world had he _forgotten_?

Bel went to dinner that day noticeably irritated—or at least without the usual wide grin plastered on his features. No one raised an eyebrow, of course, everyone preferring to _keep_ his body parts intact and not riddled with little knife-shaped holes. Each Varia member minded his own business as the prince stabbed each little slice of filet mignon like it was an eyeball, and watched as a little uncooked blood oozed out under the force of his fork.

"Pfffft." Bel suddenly stood up, taking care to make as loud a sound as he could, scratching the legs of his chair across the wood of the dining hall and clanking down his utensils. "The Prince doesn't each such second-rate food."

He ignored it all—Squalo's irritated glare boring a hole into his back, Lussuria's displeased pout at Bel's insult to his food, the lower ranks' uneasy silence and exchange of nervous looks; he sauntered to the door, shoved it open with a boot, and left, hands in his pockets and mouth busy whistling and pretending that he was, indeed, full.

Once back in the safety of his room, Bel began to pace the length of his bed, frowning under his sheath of blond bangs. He didn't understand the situation, and not understanding made him impossibly frustrated. He was a genius, for godsakes, there was nothing he couldn't know. Bel stopped at this, kicked his boot into the pile of clothes on the floor, ready to throw a tantrum in a very mature manner when—

"Bel."

He stopped. He knew the voice, even muffled through his thick mahogany doors. "Bel, open the door." And then, as an afterthought: "I brought you food."

A grin broke across Bel's dark features, and he strode over to the door, opening a slit to peek around. "Shishi~ The Prince was not aware that Mammon cared about him so very much~"

"Don't get too full over yourself, now." The baby humphed as she floated before Bel's grinning face, a plate of his leftover beef in her hand. "Lussuria was worried, and having his obnoxious nagging out of my hair was my first priority."

"Whatever you say, Mammon~" He turned, intending for the baby to follow him into his room.

Another humph. "I'm not your servant, Bel. I'm leaving your food here."

Bel turned, but the door had already slid closed. On the floor was his plate of food; Bel felt his smile dim.

Something glinted in the darkness as Bel bent down for the plate. Bel froze, before he distinguished the shape from its surrounding blob—a glass, _his_ glass, no less, swirling with white, creamy milk.

Delicately, Bel touched the glass, warm where the small hands had held them. His favorite—of course Mammon would know.

And then, as he stooped there, the warmth from the glass of milk seeping to his fingers, Bel felt something click. He looked up carefully, at the piggy bank lying on its side in the middle of his bed, and back at the meal on the floor.

And he realized—why he'd forgotten to take his laundry out, why he was so abnormally dense and _frustrated_ because of it—everything.

His grin grew in the darkness, white glinting from the moonlight shining through his windows. "Ushishishi~ The Prince is in love," he proclaimed, "and the little greedy baby is going to have to pay for her actions~"


End file.
